And You Caused It
by TeaLogic
Summary: Sherlock blames her and he can't let her go. A short drabble, set immediately after 1x11. Spoilers up to and for that episode.


And You Caused It.

_Sherlock blames her and he can't let her go. A short drabble, set immediately after 1x11. Spoilers up to and for that episode. _

Warnings: Spoilers for episodes up to 11, angst, platonic S/J, talk of drug abuse, one swearword and bad humour on the author's behalf.

Notes: DEAR ME I WROTE SOMETHING FOR ELEMENTARY. Just a short, brief scene though. I wanted something out now before next week's episode, which is bound to change the relationship between those two dramatically. I am so nervous about posting though, given the outstanding quality of fic I've already seen. Critique is always welcomed and please feel free to point out mistakes!

Also, the title is a lyric from the song 'Youth' by Daughter. That song is perfection and I recommend you have a listen.

* * *

"_Are you okay?"_

The standard question does not grant a standard response.

"_My dear Watson, whenever am I not?"_

* * *

He's up on his feet and walking away and she follows him almost immediately. There is no way she couldn't. After all, a thousand warnings are in her head now. He's walking down the pathway but despite the pace it's not with his usual, excited vigour. His whole frame has collapsed despite the attempt to hold his head up and look at the night sky. His words are ringing in her ears. He is not okay and she can't let him leave and be on his own like that.

She nearly has to run in order to catch up as he seems that desperate to walk away. Her tired body complains, reminding her of last night's total lack of sleep, but she manages. She's now right behind him, matching his pace and watching his slouched back carefully. He doesn't acknowledge her and she sighs quietly to herself.

She was prepared for this. After all, she is professional in everything she does. It would be silly, not to notice that ever growing attachment he had for this new form of hope he made. It's intensified to where Sherlock repeats a mantra concerning his sudden idea about an apprenticeship. Where he barely looks at her when she mentions the impending parting.

She expected Sherlock to be upset. She expected him to not really acknowledge the fact that she is leaving.

However, this reaction does not sit well with her.

"Sherlock?"

He keeps on walking and hunching his shoulders, like that would block anything she could possibly say to him. But for his well being as well as hers, he has to listen.

"Sherlock," She addresses the back, "my leaving is a part of the natural process-"

"_-Don't."_

Sherlock spins quickly on his heel, making her stop in her tracks under a streetlight so they are both illuminated. Her voice halts in her throat at the sound of his voice. His hand is up in her face, with one finger pointed squarely at her. Every nerve in his body is absolutely on edge and the light viciously pours on to his face, making him look even paler than usual.

She doesn't speak again and there is a silence, spare the street traffic that rumbles on quietly in the distance. They both stare at each other, no longer strangers in this intense activity. He clears his throat.

"Don't say what has been drilled in you from the very first training session. Don't give me the standard..." His arms could direct plane traffic with their movement, "_twaddle_, about merging back into society and taking the next step. That is too ordinary for you."

It's very accusatory in tone and Sherlock's eyes don't lose that forceful look, a look that rattles guilty murderers.

Joan cocks her head and raises an eyebrow.

"And too ordinary for me." He elaborates further.

She shakes her head in reply, "What are you talking-"

"Your experience with me has been nothing like the ordinary. I have been like no other sober companion you've ever had"

Joan's face screws up in attempt not to laugh bitterly, and then flattens. "Because that's not egotistical _in the_ _slightest_"

She's better than him, is Joan Watson. Because this is not a question of tolerance and just how much she could or can stand Sherlock Holmes. She knows very well that in reality, she doesn't factor in to this confrontation. This at the very core is the basic reaction that a client has to the fact that their sober companion is leaving.

Of course, she knows better than to say this to his face because she's good at her job like that. She knows now that Sherlock is trying with everything in his power to make her stay. It has blown up spectacularly in his face, whether it is tasteless jokes about cleaning or bizarre interviews with sex workers. But Joan knows better. So she swallows whatever she was going to say and gives him what he does not want to hear.

"Recovery is never easy Sherlock"

He pouts not unlike a three year old. He breaks off the stare and looks across the darkness of the park, "You're leaving me, Watson"

Relief at this utterance settles in her like an exhaled breath.

_Finally._

Yes. She is. That is what needs to happen. Sherlock cannot have her forever, no matter how much he wants to. He's a recovering addict who wants anything that could possibly take the pain away. It is of no matter that the confession would never leave his lips, but true to form 'his dear Watson' had been exactly that.

She had been his relief after a time of utter torment.

But she's known from experience that relief can only be as such if it keeps true to its title. Relief was a fleeting thing and Sherlock Holmes clearly needed more than that. (How could he expect her to stay when Irene Adler's ghost still haunted every inch of his being?) But more than that was the fact that relief only worked so long as it was temporary. Should it stay too long it would morph into something more volatile, more... _addictive._

Is that why she knows she has to leave too? This lifestyle of his has done more then work its magic on her. Within the past five weeks, her brain had been so engaged to where it ticked on and on like clockwork, although the feeling was not unfamiliar. Sober companions were naturally invested in helping people in that brief time they were there. Altruism burns deep in them and she knows without question that it will be forever present in her. Yet, an investigator was another ball game completely; where a life could be utterly changed because someone found that right piece of evidence or the perfect explanation.

But she didn't just appreciate his work. She latched on to it. It was even more evident with the case they- _she_ had just solved, because it reminded her more and more of what she used to do before everything went wrong. The results were satisfying. The work good. The work difficult and busy and frustrating but _glorious. _

Where two alarm clocks lay just as dismantled as the day Sherlock took them apart and where having dinner in a mug at three am wasn't such a bad thing after all.

And, most frighteningly, where having the right explanation for a crime was much like performing the right procedure in order to cure a severely ill patient...

She shakes her head again, clearing the space. This is why she has to go. This work is too attractive and she wasn't hired to solve crimes with him. She wasn't hired so she could dismantle something painful that she had carefully packed away. Something that even she wasn't able to confront just yet...

"Leaving is part of the process, Sherlock" No matter how much he doesn't want to hear it, no matter how... _boorish _it sounds to him, he has to understand this one way or the other. She looks carefully at that face that carries those mental wounds and where underneath is a core as stubborn as anything.

'_And it looks like I'll have to tattoo it on your damn forehead the fact that I'm leaving.'_

He smirks irritatingly as he watches her; Joan slaps her head mentally as she remembers that there are no mirrors in the Brownstone, so the tattoo idea is out.

And oh god she is beginning to sound as ridiculous as him.

"Would you leave me and this work if you had a choice?"

She won't dare reply to that question- _how could she?_

"I..." She knows that whatever she gives as a response, Sherlock wouldn't take it in any way. "I can't answer that, Sherlock"

"Well, that's bollocks" he says with a dismissive wave of an arm. He turns again and walks on.

Here, Joan thinks that there is nothing more she can do for now concerning her overgrown toddler that she happens to call a client. This time she's ready and walks beside him, now that the immediate danger is past.

"And that's not fair. This is part of my job"

They don't look at each other now, but ahead, towards the street, towards home. "A job that is as boring as anything and gives you no satisfaction while _my_ profession-"

"And who said my job was boring?" She takes out her mobile, wincing at how late it is and remembering that her mother was expecting her to call at some point later today.

"I did"

"Exactly. Your opinion doesn't count"

Joan doesn't have to see Sherlock's mock hurt expression; she can feel the drama radiating from his side.

"I'm your client!"

"Not for much longer"

"Yes, you keep repeating that over and over. I do possess ears"

"Well, they're not functioning properly." She scrolls down on her mobile, looking at her contacts and wondering if six am would be too early to call Detective Bell in order to ask how Carly was doing.

She stifles a yawn, "We need to get a cab"

"And you still have time to email my father, he doesn't keep regular hours you know"

"And you're just distracting yourself from the facts"

"_Me?_ Distracting from the facts? Watson who on earth are you talking to?"

"You!"

They are coming up to a busy street, where the hope of catching a cab awaits. Now that she acknowledges that she's tired, her body complies with all of the symptoms. She fights the urge to rub her eyes and stuffs her cold hands into her pockets.

"Consulting detective you may be but when it comes to denial you are as normal as anybody"

"I don't know why you keep harping on about this denial business when clearly you won't acknowledge my ideas"

"Speaking of ideas, the idea of getting a cab would be great"

"So single minded, Watson"

"Look who's talking"

Joan Watson lets the harmless bickering go on until they find a cab because there are six days left between them and she can't afford to do anything else.


End file.
